


i've been holding back this secret from you

by bluesey



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Pining Clarke, just clarke being a petty and jealous bitch, this is like so old but whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 19:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12416460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesey/pseuds/bluesey
Summary: Bellamy has a new girlfriend. Clarke doesn't like that so much.





	i've been holding back this secret from you

Bellamy tells Clarke about his new girlfriend the day before Octavia’s birthday party.

They’re shopping for groceries, with specific instructions from the birthday girl herself to remember to adhere to her paleo diet restrictions _only_. Bellamy and Clarke reluctantly oblige, if only to avoid his sister’s temperament issues, but they make sure to throw in some snacks for their other guests who could seriously give a fuck about what Octavia chooses to put inside her own body.

Bellamy’s dicking around on his phone and Clarke’s got a carton of eggs open, eyebrows furrowed as she checks each individual one for cracks, when he says it.

“So there’s this girl.”

She doesn’t look up. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Bellamy.”

“So there’s this girl that I _like._ ”

Of course she doesn’t automatically assume it’s her. She’s not  _that_ self-centered. Although, her heart does manage to skip a beat with the slim possibility that Bellamy might finally be confessing his potential feelings to her. In the dairy aisle.

“Interesting,” she says, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. “Care to elaborate?”

She sees him stuff his hands deep in his pockets and roll back on the heel of his shoes. There’s a nervous energy around him, and Clarke finds it a little more than endearing. He clears his throat before replying, “Well, it’s new-ish.”

They’ve been best friends for only about a year, bonding over their shared experience of taking care of their extremely drunk mutual friends one night while being the only ones sober. But they’ve known each other long before then, when Bellamy ran against Clarke for president of their college debate team and had subsequently accused her of being embarrassingly unqualified and grossly entitled for the position just because her mother was a dean of students. Their relationship had grown, though, from underhanded jabs at their weaknesses to being reluctantly impressed with their strengths and, now, to open admiration.

So, technically speaking, Clarke would actually say that their friendship is fairly new.

Or maybe she’s just reaching.

“I’m intrigued,” she says as she closes the lid of the egg carton and turns to offer him an encouraging smile. “Continue.”

His eyes flicker to the ground. “She’s cool. I think you’ll like her.”

“Not like the last one?” she asks as she lifts an eyebrow. “The one in a motorcycle gang with the slightly cultural appropriated tribal tattoos who tried to convince you to take all your mother’s insurance money and run away to Vegas with her?”

Bellamy grimaces at the memory. His two-week relationship with Echo is not something he, or anyone else for that matter, likes to remember. Clarke enjoys bringing it up occasionally to remind him of his poor taste in women.

“She’s – okay, she’s nothing like Echo,” he tells her.

“Thank god,” Clarke says and dramatically wipes her forehead. “That definitely was not one of your brightest moments. I mean really, Bellamy—"

“Okay yeah, we’re gonna need to stop talking about Echo until the next forever,” he interrupts and then shakes his head. “Anyway, as I was saying—"

Clarke nudges his boot with the tip of her shoe. “Yes, please tell me about your super new cool girl who I’m just now hearing about.”

Bellamy runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He’s not usually this at a loss for words, but she knows that neither of them have ever been really good at dealing with fffeelings, so she tries to cut him some slack.

“Just say whatever you have to say, Bellamy,” she urges, gently, placing the egg carton into the shopping cart next to a revoltingly huge bag of kale and grass-fed beef. When she looks back up, he’s texting again. Clarke frowns. “Bellamy—”

“I think it’d be easier if you’d just met her,” he grumbles.

Maybe it didn’t feel real a minute ago when he’d first brought it up, but now it’s like a semi-truck slamming into her rib cage. Because a girl runs up to them then, out of breath and gorgeous, wrapping an arm around Bellamy’s waist as he makes room for her under his arm.

 _It’s not me,_ Clarke suddenly realizes with a sharp ache.  _Bellamy has a new girl and it’s not me._

“Clarke, this is Bree,” Bellamy says then, easing up a little. The second thing she notices after that jolting and frankly unnecessary realization, is how tiny she is. And how her hair-do looks straight out of one of those Bumpit commercials Clarke hates so much because of the fact that she had tried it out herself at one tragic point of her life. She’s irritated that she’s reminded of it again. “Bree, this is my best friend Clarke.”

“Hey, it’s nice to meet you,” Bree greets, her voice smooth and collected as she sticks her hand out for Clarke. It’s the most annoying thing she has ever heard. Clarke notices a collection of stars peeking out from beneath the straps of Bree’s camisole and the lack of originality is mildly disgusting. She can actually mentally visualize the horrible moment Bellamy saw it and decided Bree was someone worth approaching just because she has fucking Andromeda or some shit on her shoulder. The mini Clarke in her head with devil horns fakes a gag at the thought; the mini Bellamy with angel wings folds his arms across his chest and looks disapprovingly at mini Clarke. “Bellamy told me a lot about you I feel like I already know you.”

The tips of his ears turn a nice shade of embarrassment as he looks at Clarke. “I don’t talk about you that much.”

“I, uh—I wish I could say the same,” Clarke replies and grabs a hold of Bree’s hand, squeezing a bit harder than she maybe intended.

Bree rolls her eyes fondly up at Bellamy, patting his chest with the hand that’s not around his waist. Clarke tries her hardest not to glare but  _that’s not her chest to pat._

Clarke’s eyes flicker to Bellamy then, equal parts hoping she’s hiding her heartbreak well and wishing he could see the hurt and betrayal in them because he didn’t even _tell_ her he’d been seeing anyone. But Bellamy’s not even looking at her; he’s glancing down at Bree with something like softness and Clarke feels like she’s going to throw up right here in the dairy aisle.

“How did—” Clarke clears her throat. “How did you two meet?”

Bellamy glances up at her but Bree is the one who answers. “We hooked up a couple times back in my freshman year of college but it was never anything serious.” She grins up at him then, tugs on the collar of his sweater vest and Clarke’s eye twitches. “Then I just randomly bumped into him a few weeks back, at a bar. You know, The Drop—”

“Yeah, I know where that is.”

They go there most weekends, Clarke and Bellamy and all their friends, but she’s never seen this girl there before. So it must’ve been during the weekend when she visited her mom right before Labor Day and had to skip out on the Dropship a few times because of it. Clarke knew she shouldn’t have gone; it never ends well anyway, so she could’ve spared the mileage on her car and potentially prevented this event from ever happening.  

Bellamy’s looking at her strangely now and she wonders if he can see the growing resentment on her face.

“Yeah, well, we really hit off,” Bree continues, oblivious, her hand back on his chest and a grin so wide it must hurt. “He’s a better dancer than he gives himself credit for.”

Clarke pins her eyes to Bellamy’s, an edge to her voice when she says, “You hate dancing.”

He doesn’t meet them, looks somewhere at her right shoulder instead. Coward. “She was really convincing.”

Bree laughs, like they just shared a joke. Clarke doesn’t find anything about this situation funny. “No, babe, you were just really _really_ drunk.”

Clarke thinks she’s seen enough. “We have to finish shopping for Octavia’s party,” she mutters, barely able to get the words out through clenched teeth.

“Right! I’m so excited to see your sister again, Bell. I have her present in the car, do you want me to leave it with you?”

Something heavy and hot sinks down to the pit of her stomach. She’s already met Octavia? Who else has he introduced her to? Is Clarke the last one to know about her? Did Bellamy fucking seriously—

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s fine,” he answers, his voice a little rough around the edges like he knows what Clarke’s thinking. It wouldn’t be a surprise—they’ve always been good at that. Not so much anymore, Clarke guesses, if he’s managed to hide the fact that he has a _whole ass girlfriend_ from her.

“I actually have a few more errands to run so I’ll meet you back at your place later?” she asks, standing on her tip toes before placing a kiss on his cheek.

“I’m actually gonna be helping Clarke with the cooking, so I’ll just pick you up for the party tomorrow,” he answers.

“I can do the cooking on my own,” Clarke offers, because she’s such a good friend. “Don’t miss out on getting laid on my account.”

Bellamy stares at her, eyes narrowing. “You don’t cook, Clarke.”

“Sure I do.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Last week you asked me how to boil water.”

“That’s what youtube videos are for, Bellamy,” she says tersely, her lips pressed together in a firm line, her arms folded across her chest.  

“God, you guys are so funny,” Bree interrupts with a laugh. “And it’s totally fine, Clarke, no worries. I’ll let you steal my boy for a few hours.”

 _He’s not yours,_ she almost says. Except, he’s not Clarke’s either.

But Bree leans toward Bellamy to whisper in his ear then, “Anyway, I’m still good from this morning,” and drops him a wink before planting a kiss on his mouth.

There’s so much of that exchange that makes Clarke wish for a nuclear apocalypse, or at the very least to step on a few legos while barefoot, but she fakes a smile instead, drops a “nice to meet you too” to Bree and watches her leave with a little sway to her hips.

Clarke doesn’t look at Bellamy as she turns around and white-knuckles the shopping cart to shove it forward. “She’s cute,” is all she allows herself to say. A kid stumbles out of her way when he notices that Clarke isn’t going to move over for him.

“Clarke—”

“What, Bellamy.”

He clears his throat and falls into step beside her, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. “Don’t forget we need coconut oil.”

*

Once they get to her place, Clarke is itching to start a fight. Bellamy tells her to start cutting the cucumbers and carrots and preparing the hard-boiled eggs for the salad, so Clarke accuses him of deliberately handing over the trivial tasks to her like she’s a child he needs to watch out for.

“I’m not incompetent, Bellamy,” she argues, her voice clipped. They hadn’t talked much in the car, just Bellamy trying to give Clarke a run-down of his relationship with Bree, and Clarke responding with grunts and one-word answers.

“Never said you were,” he answers breezily, refusing to rise to the bait, and slices the chicken breast on the cutting board next to hers like he’s dealt with this before.

Clarke responds by slicing the cucumbers with extra fervor, in silence. Hopes it conveys how annoyed she is.

He sighs after a few moments. “Stop it. You’re gonna cut your finger doing that.”

“Your concern is touching.”

“Clarke—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she interrupts as she slams the knife down. She hadn’t really intended on bringing it up, hoped to ignore it and let the question and burning desire to know fester like a fresh wound, but Bellamy’s impulsivity must’ve rubbed off on her at some point.

“Tell you what?” he asks gruffly.

“Don’t play dumb, Bellamy. Why didn’t you tell me about Brenda.”

He side-eyes her. “You know her name is Bree.”

“That’s not a nickname?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Briana? Brooke? Brittany?”

“No.” He sighs. Clarke almost feels bad, for a brief and fleeting second, that she’s making it difficult for him. “Just Bree.”

“Whatever,” she grumbles, and has enough self-awareness to admit she’s being somewhat childish but not enough self-control to stop it, “just answer my question, Bellamy. Why didn’t you tell me about Just Bree?”

Bellamy shrugs. “I don’t know. I told you, it’s still new.”

“She’s met Octavia.”

“She’s my sister.”

Clarke almost rolls her eyes and has to actively refrain from voicing how irrelevant she thinks that is. “And I’m your best friend. I thought we told each other everything.”

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. He stops whatever he’s doing with the raw meat to face her, and bumps his shoulder against hers because his hands are dirty so he can’t touch her or tug on her braid like he typically would. “I never meant not to tell you. It’s just—Octavia showed up uninvited when she was over one night, so that’s how she knows.”

“Who else knows?”

“Miller. Because he’s my roommate.”

She doesn’t say anything, just stands there, clinically slicing the carrot like it’s personally offended her.

“It wasn’t serious, at the time.”

“And now it is?”

He doesn’t answer that. She thinks that’s what breaks her a little more. He’s never been serious about a girl before, except his sister. And Clarke. She doesn’t like that she has to share him with one other person. Someone new and pretty with golden hair and too blue eyes. She didn’t even know that was Bellamy’s _type_ —he was predictable in the way that Clarke could always count on his next fling to be with a tall and leggy brunette. Maybe if she’d known otherwise, Clarke would’ve tried harder.

“It’s fine, Bellamy,” she responds when the silence has grown too thick, and hopes she’s doing a good job at hiding her grimace. “I was just upset that I didn’t know about her, but I’ll get over it. She does seem really... nice.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and crushes her against his side, his smile pressed against her temple. “Thanks, Clarke. I think you guys could be really good friends.”

She doesn’t think so, at all, but she hums an agreement for Bellamy’s sake.

*

She’s drunk before she even gets to Octavia’s apartment.

Bellamy texted her if she needed a ride that morning but she’d left him on read, not bothering to entertain the idea of sitting in a car with the man she’s in love with and the girl he’s half in love with holding hands between the center console while she watches on in the backseat. It’s not fair.

So Clarke did what any other normal person would do in a situation like this. She went into her liquor cabinet, grabbed the tequila and the vodka, and drank as much as she could before her Uber showed up.

“Too much,” she mumbles as she stumbles out of the car. She smooths her dress down and fixes her hair before knocking on the door.

Raven’s on the other side, ushering her in before she grabs her arm and turns her around to face her. She studies Clarke, eyebrows furrowed, and then rolls her eyes once she makes the realization. “You’re drunk already, Griffin? Really wish I could say I’m surprised.”

Clarke just shrugs. “It’s gonna be a long night. Had to come prepared.”

Raven flickers her gaze over to the other side of the room, and then back to Clarke. “He told you.”

She doesn’t need context; Clarke already knows what and who’s she’s talking about. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says innocently and boops her nose, ignoring Raven’s threat of imminent death if she ever does that again, before skipping over to the kitchen.

Lincoln’s setting up the food while everyone else mingles. “Where’s the birthday girl?” she asks him as she sets her gift down on a table with the rest of them.

“Being a drama queen, as usual,” Lincoln says and then throws her a smile over his shoulder. “She’s in her room, still getting ready.”

“Everyone’s already here, though.”

“She knows. Hey, you mind getting all the drinks on the table for me?”

“Sure,” she says and grabs as many bottles as she can to make less trips. “But if they’re all empty in the next ten minutes, I’m blaming the nearest warm body that isn’t me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

When she’s done helping Lincoln and throwing back a few shots with Jasper, she makes her way into the living room area. Which was a very, very bad idea. The first thing she sees is Bellamy and Bree sitting on one of the couches, their heads bent towards each other as they talk, and of course it leaves a bitter taste like a rusted nail under Clarke’s tongue. So of course she goes over there and sits on the coffee table in front of them.

“Hey, guys, great party, huh?” she asks, not bothering to try to smooth the slur of her words.

Bree laughs, and burrows herself into Bellamy’s side. Clarke wants to know why the fuck she feels the need to touch him so much, all the time. “Hey, Clarke. I want whatever you’re having.”

But Bellamy doesn’t look so amused. “Already, princess? Please tell me you didn’t drive here—”

She glares at him, and the hand on Bree’s thigh. “I’m not an idiot, Bellamy. I took an Uber.”

“I asked if you wanted a ride—”

“And I already had one.”

“That you had to pay for—”

“Trust me, it was better for everyone involved.”

He purses his lips and leans forward, as if he’s about to get up to crowd into her space and make sure she’s aware of his disapproval. “Don’t do this, Clarke, if you—”

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on who you ask, Octavia decides to make her grand entrance from her bedroom just then. She’s dressed to the nines of course, making sure she upstaged everyone to remind them this day is all about her.

Clarke excuses herself for another drink before Bellamy can finish his sentence, gulping down whatever it is that she told Monty to make for her. She can feel Bellamy’s eyes on her throughout the night, bordering between unbridled concern and exasperation at her seemingly unjustified pettiness.

It’s not like Clarke enjoys acting like this. She  _wants_ to be happy for Bellamy, that he found someone he really seems to like. Because that’s what you do when you love someone, right? Their happiness is your happiness, even if that means the source is another girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. She needs to learn to get the fuck over herself for Bellamy’s sake.

The night moves on as smoothly as it can, with only one Octavia-induced tantrum directed towards her brother. Everyone loves dinner though, mostly because Bellamy’s so great at cooking, and with Octavia’s restrictions it’s really a testament to his skills that he was able to create something so exemplary.

The compliments make him shy though, because he’s Bellamy, and he’s never been one to take them very well, so he tries to deflect. “Clarke made the salad.”

She rolls her eyes from across the table as she takes a sip of her wine. “Bellamy made literally everything else. Which is why the sweet potatoes aren’t burnt.”

They don’t talk directly to each other the whole time, because she knows he’s holding Bree’s hand under the table, so she tries to make conversation with Raven instead. Although, it’s mostly just Raven making sure Clarke’s food to alcohol ratio is sufficiently balanced while telling her how much of a goddamn fucking embarrassment Clarke is because she’s unable to form a coherent sentence while everyone else is still mostly sober.

Octavia opens her gifts afterwards and they all watch in a huddle on the living room floor. Bree is tucked between Bellamy’s thighs, and they both look so relaxed and comfortable with each other that Clarke, through the alcohol haze, realizes that this moment forward is when she really has to learn to accept the fact that Bree is Bellamy’s girlfriend, which means that she’s probably going to be seeing her a lot more often, which means Clarke needs to be  _nice._

“You once yelled at Monroe for forgetting to DVR a new Game of Thrones episode last semester. You don’t even like Game of Thrones.”

Clarke glances over at Monty sitting next to her and it takes her a while to realize that she’s spoken out loud. “Step 1: Learn how to keep my mouth shut.” She hesitates a moment before explaining herself, “And it was for Bellamy, okay? He was going through a phase where that was all that he watched and I didn’t want to make him miss the latest episode so excuse the fuck out of me for being a good friend.”

“I guess the requisite for you being nice to someone is for them to be Bellamy,” he mumbles low enough for her to hear but she doesn’t have the energy for that kind of conversation anymore. She doesn’t know if she’d be able to deny that, anyway.

But she smiles when she catches Bree’s eyes, Bellamy’s too, because Clarke really does love him, and he wants her to get along with his girlfriend so that’s what she’s going to do. Because she’d do anything in the world for him.

There’s a sweet kind of ache in her chest when she accepts it, figures it’s going to last a while, so she might as well get used to it.

*

“Hey, you up for the pool hall tonight?”

Clarke rolls over on her bed to check the digital clock on her nightstand, sees that it’s 4pm on a Saturday, and sighs. “What else do I have to live for?”

“That’s the spirit,” Raven responds deceptively bright over the phone. “Your car’s still not working, right? I’ll pick you up at six, so be ready.”

“Awesome. Can’t wait,” she grumbles and sits up, massaging away the crick in her neck.

“By the way, Bellamy’s coming with Bree,” she adds nonchalantly and Clarke’s mood instantly plummets. “Thought I should tell you and maybe suggest bringing a date yourself. If not, I know a guy.”

Her eyes narrow. “Your taste in guys is questionable, so I’ll pass on that, thanks.”

“That’s fair. How about a girl? Unlike you, I have great taste in those.”

Clarke groans and collapses back on her bed. “I’ll just go alone, not a big deal.”

“Mm. False. I’m bringing you a date then, since you can’t be trusted to bring one yourself, and we’re all tired of you third-wheeling. Moping around about Bellamy has made you more boring than usual.”

She’s not even going to touch that with a five foot pole. “Fine. God, whatever. Just stop fucking talking about Bellamy.”

“You’re in a great mood today,” she says, still unbothered by Clarke’s hostility. That’s just one of the many reasons why she keeps her around. “This is gonna be  _fun._  Go take a shower, Griffin, you probably smell fucking disgusting.”

“Yeah. See you in a few.”

She hangs up before Raven responds and Clarke hopes she understands. The thought of going out for a jog or doing some squats to regain her energy and positivity enters her mind for a brief second, because that’s what Bellamy does when he’s in a mood. But, although they share many similarities, exercising is where she absolutely draws the line. She’ll just drink some water before she leaves, that should do it.

Clarke has no idea who Raven’s bringing as her blind date, doesn’t have the energy to really care at this point, with every fiber of her being already dedicated to this asinine crush on Bellamy. So she’s not really looking to impress anyone, opting to change into a pair of jeans and a black low-cut t-shirt after her shower. And if she remembers that one time several years ago when Bellamy complimented her on it, that has absolutely nothing to do with her choice in clothing.  

True to her word, Raven honks her horn outside Clarke’s place at exactly 6pm.

“Good, you look decent,” Raven greets as she hops in her jeep. “I was worried for a second.”

Clarke just rolls her eyes and tells her to shut up and drive. Apparently her mood hasn’t altered, which Raven finds endlessly amusing.

“So who’s my lucky plus one?” Clarke asks once they’re almost at the bar.

“His name is Roan; he’s a trainer at my gym. I think you guys would get along great, actually.”

She blows out a sigh. “Super.”

“Is this--your spectacularly sunny disposition--because Bellamy's dating Bree?” she asks, finally, as she puts the car into park outside the building. “I mean, I already know the answer, everyone who knows you two knows the fucking answer, but I just want the satisfaction of hearing you say it out loud.”

“Fuck you, Raven, that’s not it,” Clarke all but growls. “You just woke me up from a nap, I’m still trying to adjust.”

Raven just lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow and throws open the door. “Sounds like a load of bullshit, but whatever, it’s your life.”

Everyone’s already there by the time they get inside. Murphy and Emori are finishing up a game against Monty and Harper, which looks like it can be anybody’s win. Bellamy and Bree are cheering both sides on from the sidelines as Luna sets down a pitcher of beer on the table.

Octavia’s no where to be found, which is for the best if Clarke is being honest. Her fights with Bellamy have escalated from harmless sibling squabble to almost fist fights if there hadn’t been a buffer to diffuse the situation. Bellamy’s been more stressed out lately because of it, especially if they’re around each other, so Clarke is glad that she’s not here to make it that much worse.

Before Clarke can even think about going over to him, Raven stops her with a hand on her arm to say, “Oh, Roan’s coming over. Be nice.”

A rugged man who looks as if he’s been working out since the day he was born makes his way over to them. She knows she shouldn’t, but she compares him to Bellamy anyway, and he just does not measure up to him to the point where she doesn’t even think she can pretend to be interested in Roan. He is attractive, Clarke will give him that, if you’re into Neanderthals.

With a start, Clarke realizes that Bellamy has completely ruined her for all men. How fucking inconvenient.

“Hey, Roan, this is Clarke; my friend I was telling you about,” Raven introduces. “Clarke, this is Roan. He can bench two of me.”

“Cool. Nice to meet you,” Clarke says.

He responds with a smile that borders more on a smirk than anything. “You too.”

“Great, now that you’ve met, I’m gonna go make out with my girlfriend. Have fun, kids.” Raven pats Clarke on the shoulder before making a beeline towards Luna.

“You look less than thrilled to be here,” he notices as he follows her to the table.

She shrugs. “This is just my face.”

“So how do you know Raven?”

“I’m sure she’s filled you in on that already,” she answers, distracted, as she watches Bellamy talk with Miller, hoping that he’d glance up and say hi to her.

“Not one for small talk, I take it. Me neither. Better to sit in silence.”

She feels guilty for a second so she gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. You were right, I really don’t wanna be here. Long story, but –“

“Does it have anything to do with the curly haired dude you’ve been starting at since you walked in?”

Clarke chastises herself for being so goddamn obvious. “Yeah, entirely that asshole’s fault.”

Roan shrugs and lifts the beer bottle to his mouth. “I get it.”

“That’s it?” she asks skeptically when he doesn’t offer anything else. “You’re not gonna demand for a refund?”

“Raven said she’d buy all my drinks for the night, so I wasn’t going to say no. You wanna pine away for a man with a girlfriend? Be my guest.”

“Cool, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Hey-o!” Raven’s voice breaks through the noise and Clarke looks up to see her with her hands cupped around her mouth for maximum volume. “It’s Clarke’s turn to play! Bellamy, you’re up too, get your asses over here!”

Clarke rolls her eyes but gestures for Roan to follow her to the pool table. Bellamy and Bree are on the other side and the smile slips from his face when he sees Roan behind her. Or maybe that’s just Clarke’s head playing tricks on her.

“Hey, Clarke. You wanna break?” Bellamy asks, rolling the white ball over to her side after he’d racked up the other ones.

“Uh, sure.” She glances back at Roan. “Just a heads up, but I’m not the best at this.”

“Give me an estimation of competency.”

“Like zero. The last time I played I was drunk and didn’t even use one of these things,” Clarke holds up the cue. “And the time before that, I was four.”

“Jesus, okay,” he sets down the bottle and rolls his sleeves up. “I’ll show you.”

The next thing she knows, he’s got his arms around her, showing the correct placement of her hands on the cue. “And then you just pull back and aim. Got it?”

She nods and quickly glances back up at Bellamy to find him staring with a tick in his jaw. She’s sure she’s not imagining that this time. He huffs and just as she’s about to follow Roan’s instructions, Bellamy rushes over to their side.

“Okay, if you’re gonna teach her, the least you can do is teach it  _correctly."_  Leave it to Bellamy, honestly. He surprises her, though, by moving her out of the way to direct his focus on Roan. He wraps his hand around Roan’s on the cue to slide it down. “Your stance is all wrong. Your right hand is too high up—there. Better. Now show Clarke.”

Clarke just rolls her eyes, but lets Roan guide her. He glances over her shoulder at Bellamy and lifts an eyebrow. “Am I doing it right, professor?”

Bellamy responds by sniffing and walking back over to his side. Once they resume the game, Clarke barely gets any balls in, mostly too distracted by how good the muscles in Bellamy’s arms look when he’s bent over the pool table, his lower lip tucked between his teeth as he carefully lines up the tip of the cue to the center of the ball.    

“Go pour a pitcher of ice water over your head, Clarke,” Roan mutters low so only she can hear. “Your thirst is costing us this game.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not. You’re literally terrible.”

She glares at him. “I got a ball in last round, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, for  _their_ side.”

She promises to do better, but just as soon as she aims for the blue striped ball in the left-hand corner she sees Bellamy absentmindedly stick his hand underneath his shirt to itch the skin there and it messes her up. “Fuck!”

Roan just grumbles in frustration.

“I love finding out things that Griffin sucks at,” she hears Murphy comment from the sidelines. She has trouble remembering why they even keep him around.

“Thought we told you to keep it quiet if you ever wanna be invited again,” says Miller from somewhere on the other side, “you’re on thin fucking ice, bud.”

Murphy, as expected, ignores the suggestion. “Someone should really be writing this shit down.”

“It’s okay, Clarke, just tune him out,” Bellamy reassures her, intensely focused on her as he rests his palms on the edge of the table and leans forward. His arms really are so ridiculous in that blue henley, it makes her a little angry about it. “You can do this.”

“Bro, she’s not even on your team,” Raven says, not even bothering to hide her amusement. “Why are you helping her.”

Clarke does as Bellamy says and tunes the noises out, concentrates on the ball in front of her and the cue in her hand. It miraculously sinks into the hole, and Roan slaps her back in camaraderie with a pleased chuckle.    

“Finally,” he says. “I was tired of carrying this team on my back.”

It’s Bree’s turn then. She’s been doing annoyingly amazing the whole game, sinking in every ball she aims for, and Clarke has had to endure Murphy’s “she’s you, but stronger” comments every single goddamn time.

So she feels a sort of silent vindication when Bree shoots for the red solid, and fails.  Clarke slaps Roan’s hand in a high-five low enough so the other side couldn’t see. It’s a nice reprieve from wondering how mad Bellamy would be at her if Clarke were to ask if Bree can fit an entire ball into the space of her bump-it every time she earns them another win.

But Bellamy rubs Bree’s shoulder in consolation and Clarke has to blink back the glare at his hand there. She’s not supposed to feel angry about this anymore, and she’s tired of it.

It’s no surprise that Bellamy and Bree end up winning the game, and she’ll take the small victory when Bellamy comes over to her side to bump her shoulder with his, failing at hiding the smugness at the corners of his mouth.

“You did good,” he tells her.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Stop lying, we both know I was terrible.”

“You tried your best,” he reiterates. “Is that better?”

“I don’t need you to coddle me,” she tells him. “But I am going to improve my game just so I can beat your ass.”

“Oh?” Bellamy smirks and wraps an arm around his cue stick to lean against it. His hair is all mussed, and he’s got a nice flush on his cheeks. She’s trying her hardest not to watch the way his mouth moves. “In that case, I’m terrified now. Totally shaking in my boots.”

“Yeah, you fucking should be.” She shoves his shoulder, only to remember that she should really be keeping her hands to herself, so she sticks them in her back pockets. “Anyway, you wouldn’t have won had it not been for my help with that green ball. Just saying. You’re welcome. Next time I won’t be so easy on you, that’s a promise.”

He laughs then, smile wide and care-free, making Clarke’s heart thump just a little bit harder, and it’s not fair.

She hears Raven in the distance calling them back in for a next game, this time Clarke and Bellamy against Bree and Bryan.

Bree walks up to them then as Clarke grabs her own cue, arms circling Bellamy’s waist, chin on his shoulder, lips pressed against his neck. And Clarke allows herself to imagine it, only for a fleeting moment, that it’s her there instead.

*

 **Bellamy** : We need to talk.

Clarke frowns at the message. She doesn’t know why it’s so ominous in its ambiguity. She’s been doing well so far, she thinks, with hiding her feelings for Bellamy and getting along with Bree. Just last weekend, they all went mini golfing and Clarke only considered tripping her with the golf club when she got too handsy with Bellamy once. It’s definitely an improvement.

 **Me** : uh oh. all this proper punctuation in one text? am i in trouble daddio?

But Bellamy had been right, as always; Bree is actually very nice and pretty cool and, in any other circumstance, Clarke thinks they actually could have been friends. But the fact remains she’s still dating Bellamy, so she’ll always have an underlying issue with her, no matter how well Clarke thinks she hides it.

 **Bellamy** : This isn’t a joke, Clarke.

He’s typically good about texting as if he’s constantly writing a formal email to a potential employer, but, as they’ve grown closer, he’s gotten better at being a more casual texter with Clarke. She definitely did something not so great to warrant correct capitalization and punctuation from Bellamy.

 **Me** : jesus ok edgelord come over

Bellamy’s there fifteen minutes later, crooked glasses and messy hair like he’d been running his fingers through it, and brown paper bag in hand. She’s still gross from the night before, when they all went out to the Dropship for some drinks. It’d just been Clarke, Bellamy, Raven, and Miller and Bryan this time. It would be a lie if Clarke said she wasn’t happy that Bree couldn’t make it for whatever reason she must’ve tuned out.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. It’s weird, because he sounds concerned but his furrowed eyebrows and the frown lines around the corners of his mouth tells her he’s also a little bit angry. “You drank a lot last night.”

“A bit hungover, but I’m fine. Bellamy, what’s wrong? Is this about Octavia? I know that she’s been—“

He slams the bag on her coffee table a little too harshly. “Onion rings,” he chooses to say.

Her hangover food.

“Okay,” she drags out the word and lifts her eyebrows. “Did they do something to offend you?”

He stares at her for a long time, like he can’t believe she’s so calm about—whatever he’s internally freaking out over. He’s going to need to give her a little more information. “Why don’t you like Bree?”

She wants to ask why the fuck they’re all of a sudden talking about her, but it’s been non-stop Bree talk since they got introduced so it’s not in her best interest to get irrationally jealous in front of him, especially with this headache.

“I do like her, Bellamy,” she tells him.

“Don’t lie to me. I thought we told each other everything.”

Her words thrown back at her stings a little, and his eyebrows lift in a way she knows is deliberate.  

“She’s good for you and she makes you happy,” she clarifies. “That’s all I want for you. Why are we talking about this?”

He glares at her when he sees that she’s not looking at him, and he knows she only does that when there’s something too honest for her to talk about, so he tilts his head to the side in an effort to maintain eye contact. “You’re telling me you don’t remember?”

“Remember what?” She remembers getting to the Dropship, a few hours after, and getting home. But everything in between is kind of a blur.

He takes a step closer. “You said…you told me,” his voice raises an octave as he mimics Clarke’s drunk voice that doesn’t sound anything like her, " _Don’t tell Bellamy, but I’m so glad I don’t have to pretend to like his girlfriend tonight._ I don’t look  _that_ much like Bryan, Clarke.”

Clarke shuts her eyes. “Fuck,” she mutters, and promises herself never to get drunk with either of them again. Loose lips sink ships and all that. “First of all, work on your voice impersonations, that was terrible—don’t roll your eyes at me, Bellamy. And second, I was drunk. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t bullshit me, princess, she’s been nothing but nice to you—”

“Why would I hate your girlfriend, Bellamy? I’ve got no reason to. She’s funny, she’s pretty, she knows obscure facts about American presidents. She even looks like me a little so she’s got points for that, except she’s not me, so she loses points for that.”

Bellamy scrubs his palm over his face in exasperation. “Clarke—”

“Can we talk about this when I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up?”

He concedes after a moment, slumps on her couch and watches as she opens the bag, withdrawing an onion ring to offer him. He declines so she takes a bite of it instead. “Greasy, just how I like it. Thanks.”

It pulls a small, reluctant smile from the corners of his mouth so she leans in to him a little, because he can’t be  _that_ mad at her.

“Sorry for—you know, being a brat,” she apologizes a few quiet moments later.

“It’s fine. Used to it.”

“Dick,” she mutters as she takes another bite. She doesn’t even complain when he tears off a piece of her ring for himself, this time.

*

Bellamy and Bree break up three weeks before Christmas, and honestly it’s the only Christmas present Clarke needs.

Of course she feels bad about it; they’d been dating for a few months and Clarke had finally been getting used to having her around. It still hurt, obviously, seeing them together, but she’d already accepted that although Bellamy loves Clarke, it’s not in the way that she loves him. She told herself that she’s dealt with worse things in life than being in love with someone who doesn’t love her back, that she’d get over it, some day. It hasn’t happened yet, but the breakup just made it a little bit harder.

She comes over with a 6-pack of his favorite beer and a sympathetic smile. “You wanna drunk watch Drunk History?”

He grabs the beer from her and jerks his head to let her inside. “A way to a every man’s heart.”

“No, just yours.” She studies him as she swipes off her scarf to hang it on the coat rack; he looks fine, for the most part. She’d expected to find him in sweatpants and a 5 o’clock shadow, but he looks as if he’d just gotten out of the shower, water droplets falling from the ringlets of his curls, running down his chest and into the open V of his unbuttoned henley.

She pulls her legs under her as she sits next to him on the couch, watching him pull up an episode. “How are you doing?”

“Pretty good,” he answers as he uncaps a bottle for her and gets comfortable. “I just finished up some grading, which took longer than I thought it would because high schoolers are fucking idiotic. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to write  _this is the plot to Disney’s Mulan_ on this one practice DBQ question about the Han Dynasty.”

“I meant with the break up.”

He doesn’t answer for a while, and Clarke watches the tick in his jaw. “I’m fine.”

“Bellamy—”

“It’s not a lie, that’s the problem,” he interrupts in a mumble. “I feel like I should be—sadder, I guess. And I was, at the time when it happened, but…it doesn’t feel like such a loss.”

It honestly shocks her because they were together for a few (long) months. Longer than any of Clarke's previous relationships, at least. “I thought you really liked her.”

“I did,” he chances a glance at her before focusing his attention back at the screen, the muscles in his jaw working overtime, “but maybe for the wrong reasons.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Bellamy shakes his head, grabs a beer and leans back, intentionally or not shifting closer to Clarke. “I’m good. Promise. Already had the break up talk with Miller and that was enough of a disaster I don’t think I could do it again.”

Clarke snorts. “I think I can do a better breakup talk than Miller. Remember he’s the same guy who fucking sent me a generic  _get well soon_ e-mail after my breakup with Lexa.”

He smiles, soft, but his grip is tight on the beer bottle. She places her hand over it, doesn’t think too much about how he jumps in his seat like she’s shocked him. “I’m here, if you ever wanna talk. About the breakup or…or anything else. You know that, right?”

The only response she gets is a nod, but he does seem to relax a little bit. And if anyone asked why she still keeps her hand on his, it’s because she’s comforting him, and that’s just what good friends do for each other. That’s it.

It’s after they’ve watched a few episodes that he shifts uncomfortably in his seat and brings it up. “We never talked about, uh—why you didn’t like her.”

Clarke pretends not to know what he’s referring to. “Who?”

He rolls his eyes. “Bree. My ex girlfriend. You know, who we were just discussing about five minutes ago.”

She chews on her lower lip and sits on her hands so he doesn’t see them fidgeting. “Is it really that important now?”

“I’m just curious,” he says with a shrug. “And your opinion is important to me, you know that. I can see why you hated Echo, but I can’t seem to figure out what Bree did to make you not like her.”

 _You dated her._ Of course she sees how ridiculously pathetic that is and why she can’t tell him. Just because he and Bree broke up doesn’t mean he’s ready or willing to even consider Clarke as something more than just a friend. There is no one on earth that she loves more than Bellamy, and she knows she ranks high on his list too, but that doesn’t mean he wants it any other way. Obviously Clarke just isn’t enough for him, and that’s fine for her honestly, just as long as she’s still the one he comes to when he needs to loosen the weight on his shoulders.

So she just shrugs and says, “I don’t like a lot of people, Bellamy, you know this.”

He takes it, whether he believes it’s true or not, and she loves that about him. Hates it a little, too.

*

“Can you do something useful and pass me the water? Also, you’re the biggest fucking idiot I’ve ever met in my life,” Raven tells her one day, throwing her a look as she slides from underneath Clarke’s car. “And I’ve met a lot of big fucking idiots. You should feel proud of yourself.”

Clarke leans back on the chair she’d been sitting in and grabs the water bottle to hand it over to Raven. “What did I do this time?”

“Absolutely nothing. That’s the problem.” She uncaps the bottle and leans her head back to empty the contents. They’re not as close as Clarke and Bellamy—she doesn’t fool herself into thinking they’ll ever get to that point, with her or with anyone else—but she and Raven have been friends forever and she’s not afraid to say whatever’s on her mind, and Clarke appreciates that. Sometimes she needs a thump on the head. “Bellamy and Bree broke up two weeks ago, Christmas is just around the corner, and I haven’t seen you buy any Christmas-themed lingerie to seduce Bellamy with. I’ve checked your search history, so I know.”

Clarke glares at her. “What the hell, Raven—“

She rolls her eyes incredibly and flips open the hood to duck her head and look inside. Clarke’s not even going to pretend to try to figure out what she’s doing. “All I’m saying is you guys have had massive boners for each other ever since the Spring Opener of 2015 but you’re both too pussy to do anything about it. It’s exhausting to watch. We’re all exhausted, Clarke. Just fuck him for the sake of all of our sanities.”

“I don’t  _just_ …wanna fuck him,” Clarke mumbles, pulling her knees up on the chair and wrapping her arms around them. “I want all of it.”

“You already _do_ have all of it, Jesus, when are you going to fucking get it?” Raven slams the hood back down a little too hard and places a hand on her hip, leaving a smudged black imprint on her white tank top. “You practically live at each other’s places.” She ticks off each damning piece of evidence with her fingers. “He calls your mom at every holiday to wish her well even though they really don’t even like each other. You have your boring ass weekend rituals where you sit on the couch for hours to watch lame history documentaries that I’m pretty sure you don’t give two shits about but Bellamy loves them so you go along with it. He goes to every single one of your showcases with a fucking  _tie,_ and brings you flowers--you really need to trash some of them, Clarke, our apartment isn't a goddamn botanical garden-- _and_ he buys you dinner afterwards. You guys do everything there is to _do_ on this planet together." She lifts an eyebrow in a way that is somehow condescending. "Do you really want me to keep going? Because I can. I can go on for hours. I can write a novel, Clarke. It’s fucking disgusting and it’s time to realize that.”

Clarke stares at her, blinks once. “You have no solid argument. Everything you just mentioned is what a friend would do with or for another friend.”

“Right. Friends who are in love.”

“You know what? I’m just gonna sit here and ignore you.”

“Why won’t you just admit it?”

Her throat unexpectedly closes up so she has to clear it. “I have. He doesn’t feel the same.”

Raven’s eyebrows shoot up. “He told you that?”

“No, but,” Clarke shifts in her seat. “I know that he doesn’t. He just sees me as a friend and before you say anything, the way he is with me—he’s like that with everyone. He’s a mother hen, you  _know_ that.”

“I can tell you right now Bellamy isn’t like that with literally anyone else.”

“Then you’d be wrong.”

“This conversation is literally draining me. Clarke, I can physically feel myself withering away into nothing each time you open your fucking mouth. Tell Bellamy how you feel and get out of my face.”

“I don’t wanna ruin what we have by making it weird." Raven looks bored, as if she's heard these excuses all before. She has. "You know Bellamy; he’ll act like everything is fine but it’ll be different.”

“Yeah, you’ll get to fuck him for real instead of just fantasizing about it.”

“Here I go ignoring you again.”

“Good.” Raven picks up a wrench and points it accusingly at Clarke. “You’re getting on my last goddamn nerve.”

*

Clarke’s prepared to keep the fact that she’s in love with her best friend quiet for the rest of her life. It’s for the best, she tells herself, because that way neither of them will ever have to get hurt if on the less than likely chance that he did feel the same way and they did try, only for it to backfire in the end. She doesn’t want to lose Bellamy because of it, so she’s resigned herself to suffer in silence. She’s good at that, if the last few years are any indication.  

In hindsight, though, she should’ve probably realized that none of her plans actually follow through the way she intends them to. This is just another one of those times.

There’s an ambush of noise as soon as she opens Monty’s front door. Jasper’s in the kitchen with Harper, mixing drinks like it’s a witch’s potion, and she can tell they’re already cross-faded. Raven enters from the back door with a welding mask and a torch, brightening up with a smile once she sees Clarke. The rest of them must already be outside.

“Do I even wanna know what you’re doing with that?” Clarke asks Raven with a lift of an eyebrow.

“Nope.” She reaches over to grab one of the bags of food Clarke’s carrying as she sets the others on the kitchen counter. “Big Boy Blake’s outside.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs and drops a few greetings to her other friends before making her way out the back door to Bellamy. He’s sitting on the backseat of a 1953 Ford pick up truck that’s been pushed up against the back of the house for times like these, his head tipped up to the sky. There’s something about the way his body slumps up lazily against the seat, the way his arms cross behind his head as if he’s got all the time in the world, that makes Clarke warm inside.

She clears her throat and shakes her head to clear that too before occupying the space next to him. He barely offers her a glance in her direction but he grunts a greeting around the joint in his mouth. Clarke plucks it from between his teeth to take a hit and his head lolls to the side to grin lazy and slow at her.

Clarke loves him, in every capacity, and this way is no exception. He doesn’t smoke much but when he does, he gets looser, and softer, his limbs turning to something malleable, his eyelids drooping almost as much as his smile widens.

He likes to touch her more, too.

They’ve always communicated with body language and calculated touches more than anything, but when he’s high he likes to  _cuddle._ And Clarke  _loves_ it. Loves any excuse to touch him, really.

“You’re gonna freeze to death. Haven’t you been watching the news, princess? There’s a storm coming,” he tells her, voice thick, like gravel. “C’mere.” He reaches over and loops an arm around her waist to pull her against him. She doesn’t protest, the thought never even crosses her mind, not with the way he feels so solid against her softness or the way he slides his fingers under her shirt to steal some of her warmth.

“Jesus, watch your fingers. Fucking icicles,” she says but she wraps a hand around his wrist to keep them in place.

She feels more than hears his quiet laughter under her palm, likes the weight of his forehead resting on the crown of her head and his breath stirring her hair. They get high and play drinking games once everyone’s outside until the sun goes down. Miller’s sitting by the bonfire Monty started, drunkenly reciting a depressing Shakespeare play despite Bryan’s protests while Harper roasts some marshmallows. Jasper had pulled out an old guitar with missing strings, tried to serenade Maya with it, but Raven grabbed the instrument before he could get too far and tossed it over to Monty. He’s strumming it while Miller speaks, only adding to his dramatic flare. And it’s good.

Only gets better, when Clarke feels a snowflake land on her cheek. “Oh my god.” She wipes it away and tips her head up. There’s more coming, so Clarke curls into herself, into Bellamy. “Bell, it’s snowing.”

“I’m high, not blind, Clarke.”

“Smartass.” She rolls her eyes but some gets in his hair so she lets herself run her fingers through it, to brush some of the flakes away.

He’s watching her like he always does. Something like softness, something like reverence. “You’re so pretty, Clarke, you know that? I love—” he traces the outline of her face with his pointer finger “—all of this.”

And Clarke grins back at him like she always does. Like he’s something precious, something holy. Her boy. She tugs on a curl. “You’re pretty too, Bellamy.”

“You do look like her a little. Like Bree, not Rapunzel.”

“Ugh.” Regular Clarke gags for real this time, “not _that_ much.” She tries to take her hand back, put-off, but he doesn’t let it get very far; he wraps his own around hers and blows hot air over them after she’s started shivering from the cold. “Why are we talking about her again?”

“Miller kept telling me I was an idiot,” he continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “I mean, he’s always telling me I’m an idiot, but this time it was for dating Bree. She was nice, but she wasn’t—”

She wants to know what he was going to say before he cut himself off. Wants to know if there was supposed to be a  _you_ there, or if she’s just completely crazy.

She pokes one of his abs. “She wasn’t what, Bellamy?”

“Were you jealous?”

That’s not what she necessarily expected him to say, at that moment, so she sits there shell-shocked, waiting for an excuse not to answer to present itself. In the end it doesn’t come, of course. “Of you? Why would I be? You think I’d want to fuck someone who looks like me? You think I’m that narcissistic?” She scoffs. “Honestly, Bellamy.”

If he’d been sober, he’d probably roll his eyes and click his tongue out of annoyance or impatience, but right now he’s just waiting for an answer he can understand, waiting for confirmation.

So she gives it to him.

“Yeah,” she says with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, because it was so fucking obvious there’s no point in keeping up with the pretenses, “Yeah, of course I was jealous of her, Bell, how could I not be?”

He nods, like he’s known, but he asks “why?” anyway. Like he can’t possibly wrap his head around the knowledge that Clarke could love him as much as she does. And that’s just ridiculous, knowing Clarke.

“I wanted it to be me, with you,” she tells him after she clears her throat. It’s kind of hard to look at him—Clarke’s never been good at expressing her emotions honestly, but Bellamy just seems to be about the only person who can bring out that vulnerability in her and it fucking terrifies her. “I’ve always wanted it to be me. I just never knew if you wanted it to be me, too.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, only stares at her with a glazed look in his eyes like he’s thinking back and analyzing their every interaction since Bree, and Clarke starts to retreat back into herself. This was an extremely bad idea, one she can’t take back or fix, but at least he knows how she feels now. It’s his move.

When he smooths his thumb over her bottom lip and kisses her, it’s soft and a little hesitant at first, not entirely what she expected out of Bellamy, knowing how rough he can be, remembering all the details Raven had told her about what he can do with his mouth that one time over a bottle of tequila.

And then he’s kissing her like he means it, his hands in her hair, his mouth urgent like he’s impatient, and she feels like she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life.

The first time she thought about kissing Bellamy Blake was, unfortunately, around the same time she figured out that she had a crush on him. He had pulled one of their teammates to the side, to find out what had happened after she’d been MIA for a few meetings. His eyebrows were furrowed in that way Clarke has come to categorize as concern, and he had one hand on her shoulder as he very attentively listened to what she was saying. Clarke had looked down at the coffee cup and chocolate raspberry scone sitting on her desk, Bellamy still in her peripheral.

She didn’t have to tell him but somehow Bellamy had known she hadn’t been getting enough sleep lately, hadn’t been eating as much as she should, so when he showed up five minutes late for their meeting she was about to take her frustration out on him until he wordlessly handed her the cup and the scone and made his way to the podium, proceeding with the meeting like he hadn’t just done something completely out of the ordinary. She had realized in that moment, that that’s just who he is. He cares about his people almost to a fault.

It was inconvenient, figuring out she had liked him, because she’d had other things to worry about at the time, like her father’s trial and her mother’s annoying persistence to _see it from her perspective._ The most she could afford to spend thinking about Bellamy Blake was during debate club meetings, when he’d tell her to stick with designing the t-shirts for their team while he took care of the rest, as if he didn’t think she would fight him on it. But somewhere along the way, she’d really come to admire and respect Bellamy. His heart, and his mind, and his arms. He has really, really nice arms, and Clarke is just a girl. She couldn’t help it. She’d thought about him pushing her against the back hallways after their meetings ended, all heat and their current disagreement still bitter on their tongues, far more times than she can count on both hands. She’d always imagined he would be the one in control, like how he always is when they’re standing in front of the room, in front of their team, together. It tripped her up at first, how fast and frequent the thought of him took precedent over anything else.

How it still is that way, even now. How she doesn’t even mind.

He moves back too soon and she whines at the back of her throat, unsatisfied. “Am I dreaming again?” he asks against her mouth. “Did someone slip acid into my drink and I’m tripping the fuck out right now?”

“Bellamy, are you serious?”

“Wait—“ he pinches his forearm and Clarke rolls her eyes when he inevitably hisses. They should have waited to do this when he isn't this high. “Miller! Hey, you won’t believe it--I just kissed Clarke Griffin in real life this time!”

“That’s great, man, but I thought I fucking told you never to interrupt me while I’m in the middle of Hamlet’s soliloquy—“

She hears a wolf whistle and sees that it came from Raven. “It’s about goddamn time!”

Clarke snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Should I come back later?” she asks, glaring at the side of Bellamy’s profile. She wants to wipe that smirk right off his stupidly beautiful face.

“Only if you’re wearing a stola.”

She stares at him. “Is this a joke? Like are you joking with me right now?”

He laughs, easy, easier than she’s ever seen him, and wraps his arm around her waist again to bring her closer. She ignores the various lewd comments coming from her traitorous friends. “I’m kidding, princess, I’m not a monster. You’d freeze in a stola.”

“Bellamy—“

“It’s always been you, Clarke, you have to know that,” he says with that same light-hearted tone, but his eyes are so dark and intense she almost has to look away from the weight of it. “It doesn’t matter who I was with—it was always going to be you, and I’ve known that for almost as long as I’ve known you, but I didn’t want to admit it. It will always only ever be you for me and it was stupid to pretend otherwise, I don’t know why I even tried.”

She gets it, because it’s the same for her too. Like everyone else she’s ever dated were just meant to be lessons until Bellamy came along. “So you’re telling me that…”

He huffs out a laugh. “That I’m crazy about you? Yeah. Thought that was pretty obvious.”

“It absolutely was,” Raven interjects and throws them a fleece blanket. It’s getting colder, the snow blanketing the dirt and dead grass with white. “You’re both just too fucking stupid that it took this long to figure it out.”

“No one asked for your input, Reyes.”

She grins at him. “I want you to think about this moment right here when you see Clarke in this super cute super sexy Mrs. Santa Claus lingerie set I ordered for her. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“Raven, what the hell—“

“Consider it my gift to the both of you, courtesy of Clarke's credit card.” She gives them a half-hearted wave as she makes her way over to where Monty and Harper are huddled with the booze. “Use it well, weirdos. You deserve each other.”

Clarke turns to Bellamy to find him already looking at her. She’s nervous all of a sudden, and forces a laugh that sounds harsh to her ears. “She’s…so weird.”

“I really fucking love you, Clarke,” he tells her like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and her eyes widen, despite already knowing that he does, still not able to comprehend being on the receiving end of Bellamy’s affection, still not even sure what she did to deserve it. “And I’m never gonna get tired of saying it, so you might as well get used to it.”

“Just so I’m sure,” she says before she lets herself say anything else. “You’re completely over your ex, right?”

“Who?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be a dick.”

The corners of his mouth pull up. “Did you know that she was the one that broke up with me?”

“No,” Clarke shakes her head. “but I kind of assumed.”

“Hey, I take offense to that,” he says and lightly pinches her side. “You wanna know why?”

She grabs his fingers in a tight grip. “I feel like you’re gonna tell me anyway whether I answer yes or not.”

“She figured it out,” he explains as he brings their clasped hands up to his mouth to leave a soft kiss on her knuckles. “That I have…a thing for you. A really huge fucking thing that apparently got in the way of our relationship without me even knowing. And it’s not your fault, don’t give me that face, it was my own feelings that messed us up, it wasn’t you, Clarke.”

“Do you realize how that sounds? I really don’t wanna be known as the serial _homewrecker_ —“

“You’re not.” He nudges his forehead against hers. “You’re not, okay? Don’t think like that. Bree and I—we were never gonna work out anyway. She hates pizza crust and sleeps with socks on, Clarke. How is that even comfortable? How can I build a life with someone like that?”

“Don’t forget the Bump it. Horrible. Just so, so bad.” She shoves his shoulder with her own and smiles because she can’t help it. “She was nice, though.”

“You hated her.”

“I did not hate her,” she objects. “I just didn’t like that you were with her. Completely different.”

“God you were so jealous. Can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.”

“Don’t start this, Bellamy, I’m already annoyed our first kiss was in front of these fucking idiots.”

“You didn’t even try to whisper that, did you,” Monty calls from the bonfire.

“Except you, Monty. Love you!”

Clarke grins when he gives her finger guns and turns her attention back to Bellamy. “I love you, too, you know. I don’t think I’ve said that yet.”

His smile stretches across his face. “You didn’t. But you honestly didn’t think I’d suspect when you showed up to Thanksgiving dinner with shorter hair, throwing death glares at my girlfriend? I heard Raven offer to take her out for you and you had to  _think_ about it.”

“Shut up,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Your girlfriend was wearing a stupid turkey hat on her head and it was fucking ridiculous but she was still your girlfriend. It was awful.”

“So fucking jealous.”

“Remember when you told me you loved me? Let’s revisit that.”

He’s still smiling when he presses his mouth against hers, laughs when he nips at her bottom lip and promises her “later,” after Jasper made it very clear that they should get a room or suffer the consequences. Clarke doesn’t mind it, anyway, since they’re both inebriated and there’s too many witnesses around for her to do what she really wants to do to him.

The funny thing is, it doesn’t feel as if anything’s really changed all that much. Raven still takes Jasper inside after he gets too drunk and ends up vomiting in the bushes; Miller and Bryan pass out next to the fire so Monty has to put it out before they accidentally roll themselves into it; Harper draws tiny hearts on their faces with a dry erase marker while Luna takes pictures with Raven’s phone. And Bellamy and Clarke watch from their makeshift throne of ripped vinyl and broken springs to make sure no one’s dying or committing arson. Like usual. Except he takes her hand this time, and he doesn’t let go. There’s no reason to.

*

Christmas has never been Bellamy’s favorite holiday, every year a struggle to make it perfect for Octavia even though she never seemed satisfied with his efforts in the end. So he had stopped caring about it somewhere along the way, but Clarke has made it her personal mission to change that around this year.

“We can get regular cheese instead of the gross vegan one,” she tells him as she tosses the container into the shopping cart.

He smiles at her, half grateful half amused. “What a relief. I was definitely worried about the cheese.”

“Hm, what else was on Octavia’s forbidden list? Egg-nog? Apple pie? Sunshine and puppies?”

He nudges her side with his elbow. “Be nice. She’s still my sister, Clarke.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes the cart forward until they reach the frozen food aisle. “I know. But you can’t ask me to like what she’s done to you.”

Clarke can practically feel the life drain out of him every time the topic of his sister comes up, and she can’t honestly be mad at her moving across the country but she doesn’t love the effect it has on Bellamy. She reaches for a bag of vegetables and a bag of potato wedges, lifting them both up.

“Which one would she hate the most?”

The corners of his mouth pull up in a smile. “Clarke, you can’t use your dislike of my sister to justify your unhealthy eating habits.”

“Answer the question, Bellamy.”

“The potatoes.”

She makes the annoying sound of a winning buzzer and grins when Bellamy rolls his eyes again. “That’s correct,” she tosses the potatoes into the cart and the vegetables back into the freezer. “This holiday is gonna be an Octavia-free event.”

“Don’t act so excited about it,” he mutters when she adds an unnecessary skip to her step after her declaration.

“Sorry, no can do,” she tells him. “We’re starting a new tradition, just you and me.”

“You know that’s not true. Raven has a key to my place that she thinks I don’t know about,” he tells her and folds his arms across his chest like he does when he’s preparing for a challenge. “It’s cute how she thinks I wouldn’t notice my video games disappearing and mysteriously reappearing in your place. Tell her in no universe would I ever believe you suddenly acquired an interest in Diablo.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and forces his arms down. “No, she knows you know. She just doesn’t care that you know.”

“What I mean is that it’s gonna be me and you and our collection of misfit toys.”

She rolls up on her toes to leave a peck on his lips. “Good. Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Bellamy lifts an eyebrow and looks around before his hands find her waist. “I can think of a few alternatives.”

Clarke grins and wraps her arms around his neck, her fingers messing with the hairs at the nape because she can do that now. Because she's his _girlfriend_. She loves the way it sounds when she says it, so she makes sure to bring it up at any given opportunity. It's only been three days but Raven is already tired of hearing about it. “How scandalous. Right here in the dairy aisle?”

He grins back and slides a hand into one of the back pockets of her jeans, because he can do that now. “Right here in the dairy aisle.”


End file.
